The Coming of the Dragon (15 page)

The bard freed Rune’s arm, and as he did, he gave Rune an insulted look, as if Rune had been the one who had forced the bard to accompany
him
down the street.

The man shook his head and fixed his single eye on Rune. “I was against it, you know, when our king asked for Amma’s hand. It was wrong of me; she would have made a
fine queen. That woman’s wisdom and her courage … well, not that it mattered. She refused him. She’d seen enough of marriage, I suppose.”

Rune took a step backward. “King Beowulf?” he said, incredulous. “Asked Amma to marry him?”

The bard’s eye skewered his. “Don’t you know anything about her?” He stared at Rune for a long moment, the black pit of his missing eye seeming to bore into Rune as if it could see directly into his thoughts. “Didn’t you ever ask?”

He turned and walked away, leaving Rune gaping in astonishment.

THIRTEEN

THE STABLES. HE NEEDED A QUIET PLACE TO THINK, TO
try to understand. The king had wanted to marry Amma? His own father had killed Amma’s son? What else didn’t he know about her?

“Rune!” a man called just as he was about to step through the stable door. “We need some help.”

He turned to see Buri waving at him. The stocky farmer, his fair skin sunburned from working the harvest, looked harassed. “You’re not doing anything—hurry up.”

Cautiously, Rune followed him into a barn near the blacksmith’s shop. Was this a setup? He’d seen the two young farmers in the king’s hall before, but they’d always given him and Amma a wide berth. He didn’t think they liked him, and now, having heard the accusations against his father and having seen him hustled into Finn’s house,
they had even less reason to trust him. They might not have been warriors, but between the two of them, they had enough muscles to bring down an aurochs.

He hung back to let Buri go into the barn first. Then, keeping his hand on his sword hilt, he stepped inside, flicking his eyes around the shadowy space. Surt looked up when Rune came in. His hair was as sun-bleached as the pile of straw he was holding.

“Buri says a dragon has horns like a mountain goat’s.”

“What?” Rune stared at him.

“You know. Curled.” Surt circled a finger beside his ear. “He’s wrong, right? Tell him he’s wrong.”

Rune looked from one farmer to the other. They watched him, waiting. The back of his neck prickled. Suddenly, he knew—he’d walked right into their trap.

Tensing, he looked over one shoulder, then the other, waiting for the attack, but the dark corners were empty except for a cow placidly chewing her cud.

He looked back at Buri’s and Surt’s faces. They looked eager, not hostile. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve seen the monster—what’s it look like?” Buri asked. “Doesn’t it have horns?”

Surt hefted the pile of straw in his hands. “We have to make a dragon, a straw one for the feast.” He gestured with his thumb toward Buri. “He thinks he knows everything.”

Rune let out his breath. “Well,” he said, “it
does
have horns.”

Buri beamed, his sunburned face bright with pleasure. “See? If you’d just listen to me.”

“But they’re straight horns, not curled,” Rune said.

It was Surt’s turn to grin. “Ha.” He gave the other farmer a friendly punch in the arm, so hard that Rune was sure Buri would fall over. He hoped they wouldn’t be that friendly with him.

“Come on, you can help us,” Surt said. “We’ve got wood underneath and then we’ll tie straw around it. What about its tail? What does that look like?”

Rune stepped forward, his shoulders relaxing, and grabbed a wisp of straw.

As they worked, constructing a dragon as long as a tall man, the two farmers joked with one another and complained about having to be away from their farms at the height of harvest.

“Your farms weren’t burned?” Rune asked them in surprise. He had come to think of the entire kingdom, all its fields and farms, as a smoldering ruin, like the king’s hall.

“Wouldn’t have believed what they said about this monster if I hadn’t seen Wald’s farm—the whole thing burned to cinders. Wald, too, and Thorgunna and all their kids.” Surt lowered his head for a moment, then shook it. “Shame, that was. They were good people.”

“Aye,” Buri said. “But if we’re going to have any harvest at all, we’ve got to get back. My wife can’t do it—she’s got the baby to look after, and the animals, and she’s about to have another one.”

“What, an animal?” Surt threw him a punch, followed by a grin.

“Hoping for a horse—we sure could use one.”

Both men laughed. Then Buri turned serious again. “The king needs to get on with it, get this dragon out of the way so we can get back to work.”

Rune stared at him. “It’s not like that.”

“What’s that, now?” Surt asked, looking up from the twine he was winding around the long tail.

“You don’t just go out and kill a dragon and have it done with,” Rune said, looking from one farmer to the other. “It’s not that easy. Finn tried, you know. It got him killed.”

“Well, sure, but he went by himself. What a fool.”

Rune hardly realized he had moved until he found himself grasping Surt’s sleeve and staring directly into his eyes. “Finn was no fool.”

Surt gave him a strange look, and Rune stepped back, dropping Surt’s tunic. Surt brushed it as if he were dislodging a piece of dirt and then, in the sudden silence, went back to the tail he was constructing. Rune saw the glance he exchanged with Buri.

Finn might have been no fool, but Rune felt like one. Just when he’d gained the men’s confidence, he’d thrown it away. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Hand me that stick, would you?” Buri said, easing the silence.

They continued to work, Surt and Buri speaking in low
voices about their families, their farms, and above all, the harvest, while Rune sank into his own dark thoughts.

As he shaped a dragon’s leg with straw, his swordbelt bit into his hip and he shifted it. It would be easier to work if he took it off, but he didn’t trust the two farmers—or himself. He’d already lost the sword once.

His father’s sword, taken from the man he’d killed—Amma’s son. What had it done to her, having the weapon in the back of the hut all those years? He thought of her sitting on her three-legged stool on winter evenings when the wind quested around the walls and sent bursts of cold air through the smoke hole. He remembered the way she would draw the sword from its sheath and hold it up to the dancing firelight, painstakingly checking it for rust before dipping a rag into her pot of whale oil. Carefully, gently, as if it were a ritual, she would smooth the rag over the sharp metal, working oil into the runes etched near the hilt. Now he thought he understood why. It wasn’t just his father’s sword; it had been her son’s, too.

She had had every right to have Rune killed in revenge for her son’s death. Most people would even argue that it had been her duty, and in theory, he agreed with them. Instead, she had raised him, nurtured him, treated him like her own child. Once, he remembered, after she had sung a long tale of feuding tribes and failed peace pledges, she had stopped and looked at him. “Men say it’s better to avenge your friends and family than to mourn them. That’s not how it seems to me.” He had argued with her about it,
blissfully unaware of his own ignorance. Yet even knowing that she had saved his life, he knew she’d been wrong. Vengeance was the way of the world. All the stories spoke of it, all the wisdom of the tribe taught it. It would have been better for everyone if Amma had demanded his death the moment she saw his father’s sword. If she had called for it, the king wouldn’t have denied her. Neither would Dayraven.

Rune twisted a strand of straw so hard it snapped.

When he had washed ashore in the boat, people said, Dayraven would have been only too happy to kill him.

“What about that white spot you saw?” Buri said, and Rune looked up. Straw dust hung thick in the air, and he coughed, then swallowed. He could feel the two men watching him.

“The white spot—where does it go?” Buri asked again.

Rune put his hand to his chest. “Here, below the neck.”

“How big?” Surt asked.

“Has to be big enough to see at night,” Buri said.

Together they painted a target—too large to be realistic, but the idea would be clear to anyone who saw it.

“All right, it’s getting dark. We’d better get it down to the Feasting Field,” Buri said. “Smell that meat roasting? I’m hungry!”

Rune’s stomach growled in answer and Buri laughed. “Come on, ready?” The three of them hefted the dragon to their shoulders and carried it out of the barn.

As they walked down the narrow lane, weaving between
walls to keep from knocking the tail off, a few scattered people watched them. An old woman shrank back against a wall, hiding her face behind one hand. Buri saw her and called out, “Don’t worry, Mother. This worm won’t bite.”

When they stepped onto the path leading to the Feasting Field, more people joined them. Ottar’s boys came running, shouting, “Look, look! The dragon!” and jumped up to try to poke it. Two little girls stood hand in hand, eyes wide, as they passed.

“Dragon coming through!” Buri called as they approached two women struggling with an iron cauldron that hung on a beam between them. The women set down their load and cheered as the effigy passed by.

Footsteps behind them told Rune that someone was racing to catch up—Od, a boy he knew from weapons training in the hall. He came alongside and grabbed hold of the creature’s sagging back leg. Then Brokk edged in between Rune and Buri, taking part of the dragon on his broad shoulder. “Hey, Thialfi!” he yelled, and the warrior with the damaged sword arm loped up to take a place near the effigy’s head.

Rune stepped away, mingling with the crowd, letting Buri, Surt, and the others get in front of him. Ahead in the twilight, torches bobbed in the air as their bearers moved forward, chasing away night-walkers and spirits, preparing the way for the king.

He thought of the king’s tears. Had he loved Amma? She had told Rune the king had married once, long ago,
but his wife died young and childless. But she’d never told him that the king had asked her to be his wife, his queen. Why had she chosen Hwala’s hut over the king’s golden hall? Why had she chosen so many of the things she’d done?

A drumming of hooves made him look back. Two horses, tails flying, thundered along beside the path, racing each other to the Feasting Field. Gar and Ketil crouched low over the horses’ manes, urging their mounts onward. Gar was slightly ahead, but as Rune watched, Ketil’s horse nosed forward. “Come on, Gar!” someone yelled, and a girl cried out, “Go, Ketil!”

As the horses disappeared in a flurry of dirt and grass kicked up by their hooves, Rune turned to see who was cheering Ketil on. Wyn stood watching the race, a heavy pot in each hand. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. When she got close enough, he reached out to take one of the pots. She wrestled it back, never even looking at him, and marched down the path.

FOURTEEN

BY THE TIME RUNE MADE IT TO THOR’S OAK, IT WAS
almost fully dark, but lanterns swayed in the tree branches and dozens of torches burned across the field. On the far side, a bonfire illuminated the stone altar with its image of Thor, his beard painted bloody red, his eyes flashing with lightning. In his gloved hand, the god held Mjollnir, his hammer, high in the air. Shadowy silhouettes passed in front of the stone as people scurried by, making preparations, some of them stopping to confer with the group of men huddled near the goat that had been baking in a pit in the ground all afternoon.

Somewhere nearby, fish was frying. The aroma made Rune mad with hunger. He pushed into a group of women, hoping for a handout, but one of them, Elli, recognized him and shooed him away, laughing. “You’ll have to wait,
just like the rest of us,” she said. She looked over his head, her eyes widening, just as Rune heard the clopping of hooves. He turned to see the king riding past on Silvertop, his white stallion, draped in his rich green cloak, a golden torque around his neck and a gleaming circlet on his white head. Rune dropped to his knees, while Elli and the other women knelt alongside him, pulling their children down with them.